


but for now, it's just them

by whispered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Heartbreak, Hope, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sherlock being Sherlock and John being John, Sherlock has a silly inner child that I adore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered/pseuds/whispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't just go out and buy John. He's not at Tesco's and he can't just call his dealer and get a gram of it for pick up. John is not for sale and John cannot be replicated. John is John and there is only one of them in the world - one out of seven billion, one hundred and twenty-three some odd thousand people and that - that - is what leads to heartbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but for now, it's just them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [selenachevalier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenachevalier/gifts).



> Dedicated to scatteredscript and selenachevalier for being awesome friends and not letting me look like an idiot with my writing.

Sherlock is set on a bench with his right ankle crossed on his left thigh. The air is dry but there is a storm just upon the horizon - as always in the city of London - and just in between the time Sherlock has arrived and the far future when the rain begins to pour, he feels what is likely to be titled as heart break.   
  
It's silly really, and almost non-existent, but Sherlock had forgotten to delete the word and so there - just right there, between now and then - it exists and it seeps through every blood vein that crosses through his body. It reminds him of cocaine but he can still see things and the world simply does not spin as fast. He can swallow the same too, but he feels pulled into another dimension - just the same way that cocaine caters to his mind. Without thinking he touches his wrist and feels markings from decades past when cocaine was fun and perfect and just what he needed in life.  
  
He hates the fact that he needs John.  
  
You can't just go out and buy John. He's not at Tesco's and he can't just call his dealer and get a gram of it for pick up. John is not for sale and John cannot be replicated. John is John and there is only one of them in the world - one out of seven billion, one hundred and twenty-three some odd thousand people and that - that - is what leads to heartbreak. He fingers his mobile phone and scrolls to the name of his dealer. He's tempted to see if there's something out there that could replace John but that would just be silly. He could though - if, well, if he really needed to. There are things and mixtures and god, he knows how to use needles.  
  
He hates all of this mess and if he could - if he could delete one thing - it would be this - all of this. Maybe even John (no, not ever John, but yes).  
  
Some odd minutes pass - Sherlock does not keep track - and rain begins to fall from up above. He doesn't care - nothing really matters at this moment, at this point - maybe even ever because all we do in nature is live and die and have decades and decades (if we're lucky; if we're unlucky) in between and that - that - is life. He's fidgeting in between thoughts and the walkway is empty and the bench is hard and achey and it's just starting to pour and pour and pour. Part of him wants something there - something to latch on to - even Mycroft to come to his side and say, _let me take care of you brother because not even you deserves all of this; let me take this weight and let you close your eyes just for a little_.  
  
"You didn't get too far, did you?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't bother glancing back, despite the shield rested above his head. Umbrella. John. Proximity. He swallows and closes his eyes - John's voice is here and so is John and all of this - all of everything is just so wrong and he has no control over it really. He left that at 221B when he left the flat in a rush - left it all when he abandoned his childhood and became a genius and that was something that should have waited till at least the age of fourteen and not at the age of six because that's just far too young for pirates to grow up.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"John."  
  
There's room there, just there, next to Sherlock and John takes it, making sure that the umbrella towers over the both of them. Silence surrounds them both for some space of time until John can manage to speak up. He knows that this is different for Sherlock and this is something that Sherlock has probably never, ever had to experience. He thinks at the very least.  
  
"She's not you, you know?" John says quietly, glancing to the right first and then the left, where Sherlock sits. Sherlock's eyes are still closed but he can feel John's eyes boring onto him. "No one can ever be you. Not - not really, Sherlock. You're always going to be there - you know that."  
  
Sherlock swallows visibly but he does not respond just yet because if he does right now in this very moment he knows he will be harsh and rude and on edge and he will say things like: _John you don't understand_ and _I know you're not a consulting detective but you are my best friend and I can't ever have you leave_. He will rummage deep down inside of his heart and find more words that have never touched the outskirts of his mind like: _John, you don't know me but I am a decent person, at the very least and for god's sake, just stay - don't ever leave. Just don't leave me_. He would even say, added at the very end: _please_.  
  
"I didn't know, honestly," John says softly. He stares out ahead of him to the fields that seem to go on forever and blend into the rain that seems, too, to go on forever. "I always knew that I was different in your world - that place that you exist in your head. But I didn't know that it was more, Sherlock, honestly, I didn't."  
  
Sherlock makes a small humming noise from the back of his throat because he really doesn't know what to say. John, to an extent, is right. Sherlock's never made any intentions apparent - it's always been about the work. It's always been about the cases and experiments and science and then - then somehow over time it became about the tea and laughter and smiles and grins and Christmas trees and laundry and milk and John, John, _John_. Everything in Sherlock's world became intertwined with the singular word of John and he can't take it back. He can't ever take it back - he can't delete this one entity because John is now Sherlock's everything and you can't just do that, consulting detective or not.  
  
"I never knew, Sherlock. And I never wanted to hurt you. God knows that's the last thing I would ever want to do. I can't even imagine - I don't," he stops, shakes his head and he looks down quickly when Sherlock's hand rests on his free hand. He can't breathe momentarily because he doesn't remember ever being touched by Sherlock so freely - so intimately.  
  
"It's not your fault, John," Sherlock says. He smiles tightly, and looks at John finally - eyes wide and open and if it can be said, trusting, "Tell me how."  
  
"Sherlock, no, it's not," but he's cut off again when Sherlock squeezes the back side of his hand. He knows that there is no other option. He swallows thickly and nods, his stare going forward like a solider going into a war that was never his to begin with. "We were at dinner. I took her to the Thai place, a couple blocks up. She - she looked beautiful, Sherlock. I hadn't even a ring - you know that. You would have known. And she just turned her head and smiled and I just asked. It fit. It felt right. But, Sherlock, Jesus - she's not you. She's not a replacement. She's never going to take your place, Sherlock. She can't."  
  
 _She already has_ , Sherlock wants to say, but instead, he watches the rain fall down and he replies, quiet and almost un-sociopathic, "I know that, John."  
  
John knows Sherlock enough to know the lies weaved into that one but he cannot bear to tell him otherwise. Sherlock lets go of John's hand and they stare forward on forever - not sure where to turn the conversation and they both quietly wonder what happens next.  
  
It's never meant to be like this, Sherlock thinks, wracking his brain for the right words that he's never used properly before. I would have known, I should have known, and I could have stopped this and we could have gone back to 221B and ordered food and watched telly and I could have kept you forever but she's just for you - you found her and you found someone you actually get to keep when I thought I could have always kept you.   
  
John doesn't even know about Sherlock's other side - doesn't even know about how there's a quiet little boy who is still a pirate hidden and locked away in the brain of his. He could have known - Sherlock would have told him if the situation arose it self. Would have said, _John, here look at this bunny I have and come see how I can draw and color and maybe you could sit down with me and I could show you everything that's stuck in my brain but never let out. I've never trusted anyone enough to let it out but you're John and that's okay and if it's alright I'd like to show you how on some nights - quiet and dark - I need to held and comforted and maybe just escape to a place where I hadn't the time to remember but want so bad. It would never be anything you didn't want but it would be there, if you let it. It's just a little different and maybe a little weird but you don't mind the eyeballs and the violins and the gunshots and maybe you could just accept this small part of me because I accept everything of you._  
  
"I never knew, Sherlock. I hadn't even thought about it myself. I would have - God knows I would have if you had given me the smallest sign."  
  
"And what do you think about it now, John?"  
  
It's the first real words out of Sherlock's mouth, only used to make a deduction of his own.  
  
"I don't know, Sherlock," John says honestly, truthfully, because he just doesn't know. "I just - I proposed last night Sherlock, but I can't even imagine a world without you in it. I hadn't planned to leave you any time soon. I thought we were going to stay best mates and we can do that, if you were okay with it. I just never knew."  
  
"John."  
  
John knows what Sherlock wants - want Sherlock needs.  
  
"I do love you, Sherlock. It's there, you know? God, you're - you're Sherlock and I do love you. It's not mended itself to be that way - but it could, with time. It probably already is, in a sense. But, Sherlock, gods," John sighs, sets the umbrella to the side and the rain falls again, covering them in wet and damp and whatever the sky has to offer. "I proposed last night, Sherlock. I can't just take that back."  
  
"You could."  
  
"Sherlock - it's not that easy."  
  
"You could, John," Sherlock says, his face turning to the side and their faces are wet and Sherlock's sure that John is crying and it breaks his heart and he hates it and god, John's just _so_ beautiful. "You could if you wanted."  
  
John stays quiet, looking at Sherlock carefully. He's reading Sherlock for the hundredth and fortieth time and it's still not enough to exactly know what's going through that brain of his. He wants to pick Sherlock apart and understand how the consulting detective found love and decided to have it for him of all people. He wants to pull threads together and understand this man, figure him out from top to bottom and try and piece together how he's never been loved back before - how he's never been allowed to love in the first place. He wants to know why he's never deleted it either - why he's never let go of that word love when he probably could have. Has he tried? Would he try after all of this?   
  
"Sherlock," John says, quiet and simply, "You're always going to be my best friend and I'm always going to love you - you know that. I'm probably not even going to want to leave the flat at all."  
  
He's stopped again, but only because there is truth and there is rain and it's all here now set beside the heart break - just here on the bench. "But you love her. She's special to you John and nothing is going to change that. I would not even take that from you."  
  
"Sherlock," John says, licks his lips and the rain settles down to just a pitter-patter, pitter-patter echoed from above. "I never knew."  
  
Honestly falls flat and Sherlock just stares forward.  
  
There's a pirate inside Sherlock, one that he's kept secret and safe and truth be told, he's wanted to share with John. There's more than just a consulting detective here - more than just a genius. There is someone fragile and delicate and curved in all the wrong places but that's just it - it's just fit to this puzzle. He's got the perfect friendship and he has to accept just that, to put it mildly. Perhaps he's wanted things, thought things, kept things safely stored in that brain of his but that boats miles away and maybe - yes maybe - if he'd just spoken up and said, said things like: _John will you come lie with me and I can tell you what I need and maybe you can provide them_ or things like: _John I'm just a bit different as you know but I could love you and I already do but I could love you forever and I'm sure that's already the case but I just wanted you to know_. He could say things like: _I would not mind to kiss you in the morning, afternoon and night and if you didn't mind, maybe I could rest my head on your shoulder and press my hand to your chest and just let my brain turn off for a while_. Maybe, just maybe if this had worked out in their favor, he could have said: _This is what I need and I'm sorry for being imperfect but you're the only thing that makes me want to live so if you could just give this to me I would never ask for anything else (except for tea and laundry and cases and smiles and just let me keep you)._  
  
"I don't want to let you go, John," Sherlock says, and it grows darker by the minute, "I hadn't expected to."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock does not reply but simply covers John's hand with his own once again. In his imagination this is all that he's ever needed - in reality, this is all that he's ever needed, and so he keeps it safe just for a few minutes more.  
  
It does not stop raining and they both know the promised future, but for now, it is just them, and that's all that really matters.


End file.
